Quantum of Solace
by FarWriter
Summary: The Infinite Stratos was only supposed to be used by women yet what will happen if a man were to operate one? Shirou Emiya just had to be that person and now he's thrust into a society ruled by women. Fortunately for him, he understands what being a weapon really is.


**Disclaimer:** Infinite Stratos is a light novel series written by Izuru Yumizuru. The Fate series is owned by Type-Moon. Any of the characters you read here is owned by their proprietaries.

* * *

The snow had covered the area and made traveling treacherous, but it didn't keep important business from taking place. They had come from different parts of Europe and the Middle East to make their deals, trade, haggle, and, they hoped, return home with bargains.

The isolated landing strip in the Khyber Pass, just at the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan, was the perfect marketplace. It was a narrow, winding passage through the Safid Kfih mountains of the Hindu Kush range, enabling travelers to cross the daunting terrain between the two countries.

At an altitude of 3,500 feet, the gap in the mountains was forged by two small rivers that cut between the cliffs of shale and limestone. A caravan track and hard-surface road were put in place years ago, and a railroad on the Pakistan side goes through thirty-four tunnels and ninety-four bridges and culverts.

A plateau in the pass surrounded by the mountains served quite adequately as a landing strip, and the terrorist factions met there every other month to buy and sell. It was the only time that a truce was called, vendettas were canceled and suspicions were laid aside.

It was a convention for mercenaries, killers, religious fanatics, reactionaries, and profiteers - a flea market of terror. Everything could be had if the price was right: Scud missiles, Hungarian mortars, AK-47s, grenades, chemical weapons, helicopters, and even two MiG-29 Fulcrums, fully fueled, armed and ready to go.

The only thing missing was a floor plan hand-out for every guest, company names and logos identifying who was selling what, beautiful spokeswomen displaying the merchandise and shuttle bus transportation from the parking lot.

No one was counting, but at least a hundred men showed up for the event. Invitations went through third parties and some of the visitors traveled circuitous routes to attend. The affair was organized by a mysterious entrepreneurial group that received payment from all those attending. There were rumors that the organizers were from Germany, but that wasn't certain and no one really cared. As long as adequate protection was provided, the guests were happy to be there.

Once they saw the armed guards and the radar dish mounted with infrared guns, the conventioneers could haggle furiously without interruption. It was the best security money could buy.

Little did the terrorists know, however, security had been breached. The entire flea market was being watched by elite members of the U.N and intelligence staff around the world. Someone present at the site had a concealed video camera and was sending a direct signal by satellite.

The Situation Room was large and cavernous. It was hexagonal-shaped, and cinema-sized video screens on the walls surrounded the men and women who worked there. In the middle of the floor were banks of computers, desks, telephones and various other communication links to the outside world.

This was where Japan's first line of defense began. The big decisions were made in this room and if something really serious came up, then the Minister of Defense would attend as well.

The terrorist flea market in Afghanistan was not particularly serious, but it warranted enough concern that generals be allowed inside the sacred walls to watch.

Once news from their hired man in the field reached them that the weapons exchange would indeed take place, the American general ordered a carrier to patrol the Gulf of Oman.

He was quite prepared to order the ship to fire a cruise missile at the site, effectively ending the hi-monthly exchange of the devil's playthings.

"As we suspected, a regular terrorist swap meet," one of the generals confirmed.

"A Chinese Long March Scud, a French A-17 attack helicopter, a pair of Russian mortars, all stolen!" lauded the other one.

"And the crates look like American dries, Chilean mines, and German explosives," the staff pointed it out as well.

"Can you zoom in on those people on the right, would you please?" the group watched as the video image panned to a view of one of the arms traders. A button was pressed that prompted the computer to zoom in and begin a facial matching program. Thousands of images blurred past in a split second, then stopped on a man's mug shot. A dossier appeared alongside and the staff quickly summarized the information.

"Johan Stefan, former East German agent. He's now working freelance out of Teheran." the man had a long face, dark hair, glasses, and hollow cheeks.

The camera moved and zeroed in on another face. The facial matching program went through its tricks again.

"Satoshi Isagnra. Chemical expert. He's wanted for the Tokyo subway attack. Currently working for the insurgent force in Zaire." Isagura was Japanese, thin, with closely cropped hair and a receding hairline. He sported a Fu-Manchu mustache and was quite sinister-looking indeed.

Next, the camera focused on four men negotiating over a makeshift desk of crates. Three of the men were Eastern European, but the fourth - a sour, heavy, bearded man in his late forties or early fifties might have been Indian or Pakistani. He wore a long heavy coat and scarf and a Russian-style fur cap over his ears. If a bulldog could grow whiskers, it might have resembled the man pictured on the huge wall monitor. He signaled impatiently for his bodyguards to open a briefcase full of cash. The men punched up the facial mapping program and the man's dossier appeared.

"Henry Gupta, well, he practically invented techno-terrorism. He's been on the FBI's most-wanted list since he nearly wiped out the whole of Berkeley, California, in nineteen sixty-seven. He used to be a radical, then became an anarchist. Now he works for cash."

On the screen, Gupta was given a small oblong red box in return for the money. He opened it, but the lid obscured the box's contents from the viewers in London.

"Zoom in on that, will you?" the Japanese minister snapped.

The staff worked the zoom. Luckily, Gupta turned to speak to someone, and the device in the box was revealed.

"Well, gentlemen," the Japanese minister declared, "we will be dining out on that for many years. I can't wait to show this to the CIA." Admiral William shrugged.

He didn't care much for spy stuff. Lacking any semblance of a sense of humor, William was the epitome of Royal Navy stiffness. He was the type of man who liked to be in control, and he never let anyone forget it. William was in his fifties, tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a perpetual frown on his face that prompted the Japanese minister to comment behind his back that the admiral always looked as if he was chronically constipated.

Admiral William turned to his fellow officers and asked, "You saw that radar-controlled Gatling gun, general?" Bukharin nodded.

"Yes, also the short-range mortars." the Russian's English was remarkably good.

General Bukharin was a handsome man pushing sixty, and he had tremendous energy that made him seem much younger. He was intelligent, too, for his comments and observations always seemed to be the most sensible.

"There is enough there to start a world war, or at the very least, a revolution somewhere," Bukharin added.

"All the more reason to go with Plan B, don't you think?" William asked rhetorically. "Tell him to drop back."

"You are right," Bukharin added. "and my troops are still fog-bound in any event. By the time it clears, this - what is it, 'swap meet'? could be over."

"Very well, then," William concurred. He had already made up his mind anyway. It was time for him to exert his authority.

He reached for the red phone, but the minister felt compelled to say something.

"Admiral, I recognize that this is a military matter-"

"Yes, it is, and believe me," William stopped and spoke into the phone. "HMS Lincoln."

"HQ to Muramasa," one of the staff spoke into the headset. "The Americans are going for the naval option."

"We are as concerned as you are about the surrounding villages," William resumed saying to the minister, "but they're at least two miles away. The accuracy of the cruise missile is within two yards." With a hint of amusement, General Bukharin asked.

"Are you concerned for the health of these terrorists, minister?"

The minister glared at him. "I am concerned that we fully understand the situation. That's why we put our man in there."

William barked into the phone, "Black King to White Bishop. Authorization to fire."

Approximately 2,500 miles away, HMS Lincoln received Admiral William's orders. The Lincoln was a Type 23 Duke Class Frigate that was equipped with eight McDonnell Douglas Harpoon 2-quad launchers for Surface-to-Surface missiles, and a British Aerospace Seawolf GWS 26 Mod 1 VLS for Surface-to-Air missiles. She had been on patrol in the Arabian Sea when the call had been put through hours earlier for her to move north to the Gulf of Oman. She was now on full alert.

On the bridge, the captain picked up the intercom and sent a clear message to the Operations Room. "Weapons authorized. Prepare to fire. On my count: Five. Four. Three. Two, One,"

The launcher on deck rotated into position and the cruise missile blasted off with precision. "Missile away!" the firing officer in the Ops Room shouted into the intercom.

Back in the Ministry of Defense Situation Room, the observers could now see a different video screen displaying a satellite view of the missile's path and progress. They could also hear everything transmitted on the Lincoln's intercom. General Bukharin was impressed. He would have to speak to the President about upgrading their own Situation Room.

"Time to target: Four minutes, eight seconds," the firing officer reported. The distance from the frigate to the secret base in the Khyber Pass was roughly eight hundred miles.

The Japanese minister urgently shouted into his headset. "Muramasa! Four minutes to impact! Get out of there!"

Something came through on the headset and it frowned. He stepped closer to the monitor displaying the terrorist flea market. Blocking the view of a torpedo was a jeep in the foreground.

"Yes, I know what it is!" the minister said into the headset.

"It's a jeep! Now get out of-No! You're not going to wait, you can't wait!"

Everyone in the room sensed the urgency in the man's voice. The others were too busy watching the track of the missile on the other monitor to pay any attention to the drama unfolding a couple of feet away.

The Lincoln's firing officer reported, "Time to target: Four minutes."

Admiral William turned to the minister with a smile. "All's well that ends well, don't-"

"Shut up," the minister said sternly.

The admiral was too astonished to be angry. He turned involuntarily to look at the monitor they were staring at. The jeep on the monitor pulled away, revealing the reason as to why their man refused to move from his spot.

"By the heavens!" the admiral swallowed. "Is that!?"

The Russian general answered him, "An SB-5 nuclear torpedo!"

The instrument was fixed to a machine that wasn't even supposed to be here: a second-generation IS or more known as an Infinite Stratos being operated.

The minister barked, "Order them to abort the missile."

General Bukharin's horrified expression confirmed its identification. The minister spoke into the headset, "Right, we see it, good work. Now get the hell out!

"Move!" Admiral William grabbed the red phone again. "HMS Lincoln, urgent!" he turned to the general and asked, "The missile can't set it off, can it?"

Bukharin shrugged. "It might! Even if it doesn't, there's enough plutonium to make Chernobyl look like a picnic. Radiation! All over the mountains! In the snowpack, the water supply-"

"The village!" the minister explained to them. "Can it be evacuated?"

"In three minutes?" Bukharin said with widened eyes. "In the middle of the mountains?"

William shouted into the phone, "Black King to White Bishop - abort missile! Abort missile!" On the bridge of the Lincoln, the captain repeated the admiral's instructions on the intercom.

"Abort missile!" the firing officer pressed the abort button but nothing happened. "Sir, I pressed the button but the missile is in the mountains now."

Suddenly, the Ministry of Defense Situation Room burst into a frenzied beehive of activity. People were rushing about, shouting, and grabbing phones.

"Try it again!" the admiral shouted into the red phone. "Keep trying!"

The minister spoke to his agent in the field, "Muramasa? Why are you still transmitting?"

He sat looking at the monitor amidst the disciplined, military version of utter panic. He remained calm - unnaturally so. For him, he knew something that the others didn't. He whispered to himself.

'The camera is no longer manned.'

"You should know by now - he's never where you think he is."

The two terrorist guards sat around the fire keeping warm, completely unaware that they were minutes from certain death. They had met for the first time at the weapons exchange, having been recruited from diverse areas of Europe. It was important that no one who worked for the organizers could be traced. If it hadn't been for all the weapons of destruction scattered around them in the background, they might have seemed like tramps at a makeshift fire.

One of the guards casually looked around at the silent mountain range behind him and put a cigarette to his mouth.

A gold lighter appeared in front of his face and obligingly lit the end of the cigarette. The guard inhaled once and glanced over to see which friendly associate had done him a favor. Before he could identify the man, a fist knocked him flat. In one fluid movement, Shirou Emiya picked up the fallen guard's gun and smashed the second guard's face.

"Morning, gentlemen." the redhead said to the unconscious first guard.

There wasn't much time. If he was going to get out of there alive, he didn't have time to stop and analyze different strategies. He had to pick a plan and stick with it. He had to get that nuclear torpedo on the IS out of the target area of the incoming Royal Navy cruise missile

Shirou chucked a grenade and threw it behind a pile of oil drums and ran. The grenade exploded two seconds later and the entire base was turned into utter chaos.

A Scud missile carrier was just on its way past him. It was a truck with eight wheels and a long flatbed, the missile fastened to it at an angle. The driver had reacted quickly and drove off to get the weapon away from the fire. Shirou leaped on it just as the automatic radar kicked in and the Gatling guns spun around to face the explosion.

A hail of bullets poured into the area of Shirou's diversion.

He heard the minister urge him on in the headset. "Get out of it, Muramasa!"

Now the entire encampment was in a frenzy. Guards, buyers, and sellers were now running about firing aimlessly at unseen enemies. No one noticed the man clinging to the side of the Scud missile carrier as it zoomed past them.

Henry Gupta, in the meantime, clutched the little red box for which he had paid so much money. He looked around furiously for his bodyguards. Where the hell were they? He had waited a long time to get his hands on the device. He didn't want the entire operation blown now.

The redhead pulled another grenade from his pack and slapped it onto the side of the Scud carrier. He held onto the vehicle as long as it took to get him to the IS, then he dropped to the ground and rolled.

Seconds later, the device exploded, setting off the Scud missile.

The flames started to spread, and it wouldn't be long before the fire engulfed the entire secret base. Two of Gupta's bodyguards jumped onto a moving jeep and commandeered the vehicle by throwing out its driver and passenger. They then spun it around and drove back to their employer. Gupta perturbed that it took the idiots as long as it did, climbed into the jeep.

"Get the hell out of here!" Gupta shouted. The vehicle sped toward the road, leaving the manic confusion behind.

The redhead caught wind of the carrier of the nuclear torpedo, it did make sense to use an IS to carry such dangerous weapon. No one can use an Infinite Stratos due to it only being usable by women.

With roughly two minutes until the Navy missile reached its destination, Shirou rolled under the IS, the one-armed with the nuclear weapon. The female pilot, who was standing beneath the aircraft inspecting several bullet holes, turned a moment too late. The redhead knocked her feet out from under him, sprung upright and kicked the pilot in the head.

Without stopping to think, he launched himself in, trying to familiarize himself with it. He touched the metallic body, pouring as much as od of his into it. The information of its unconscious user, experience and the mysterious core itself flowed into his head. He doesn't have the time to check its peripherals on whether they're in good condition or not.

'Please, I dunno whether you will work but I need you to, right now!'

Whether the IS heard his plea or not, it began to react to him and he could feel it assimilating itself. The IS had a range of 715 miles and could carry a full load of missiles, rockets, or bombs for attacking ground targets. It had an anti-material rifle in its storage where it blended into the fuselage. It also possessed what engineers labeled a 'look-down/shoot-down' radar, enabling it to look down at low-flying aircraft or missiles. Its top speed was stated to be 1,450 miles per hour and it could reach a height of 50,000 feet in one minute.

Some fifty feet away, the now conscious female pilot of the IS watched in fascination. The bastard was actually piloting her unit! This was going to be fun...

The female pilot ran towards one of the jets, getting it all fired up.

Shirou taxied out towards the makeshift runway as some of the terrorists realized what was happening. They turned to fire at the IS and the defense field shielded him and the torpedo.

He spun around so that the shield would sweep across the jeeps and terrorists, brushing them away like flies. A screen popped up and he selected the rifle, using it to destroy several dumps of ammunition and rockets. This created a virtual wall of flame and heat. That would keep them away from him long enough to get down the runway.

He turned the IS again and barreled out onto the runway at full speed. He took a moment to look up at the sky, estimating that he should be able to see the missile any second.

Sure enough, the cruise missile appeared out of the clouds ahead, coming straight for him. Timing was critical. The redhead held the throttles just long enough for the missile to pass directly over him. Practically parting his hair as the IS began to lift off the ground just as the missile made impact.

Back in the Situation Room, the past two minutes had been silent and tense. The observers watched the monitor without breathing. The camera had not moved from the static scene, but the IS did leave the frame. Not being able to keep their eyes on the nuclear torpedo attached to the IS wing, the lite members of the military and intelligence forces could only pray and wait. They heard the drone of the firing officer as he counted down to the moment of impact. They watched as the entire scene on the monitor suddenly blew up spectacularly - then the image on all the screens became video snow.

Back at the site, the impact of the cruise missile had created a hell on earth. The raging fireball that grew into a dome shape over the landing strip threatened to overtake the IS as he climbed higher and higher. He pushed forward as far as he could until the IS and his package ultimately burst out of the flames into the clear sky.

Shirou breathed a sigh of relief. His heart was pounding and the adrenaline was pumping. He had done it. He had got the torpedo out of there. Now, the big question was where to go…? He didn't particularly relish the thought of flying all the way out to HMS Lincoln.

The sound of tracers hitting the IS shield jarred him back to his immediate airspace. A jet had taken off after him and was now on his tail. A barrage of metal shot out from its guns just as he maneuvered evasively to the right. He pulled to the left, then right again, dodging the surprisingly accurate shots of the second pilot.

The pilot of the jet in pursuit of Shirou cursed when the missile soared past the target. She blinked and saw that the IS had completely disappeared from her view. The thief wasn't in front, nor to the left or right.

"Where the hell did he go?"

Unbeknownst to the pilot, Shirou had managed to position his plane directly underneath his pursuer and keep a comparable speed. With the anti-material rifle in his hand, he shot underneath where the pilot was and sped away from the scene. The jet sprung out of control until it eventually crashed into the mountains with a loud explosion.

The redhead soared forward and he set course, secured the torpedo and settled in. He reached for the comms and began to speak into his headset.

_"Minister,"_

Back in the Situation Room, the staff pulled the plug on the headset so that his voice was transmitted on the speaker for all to hear.

_"The torpedo has been successfully retrieved, returning to base now."_

"Good work, that's one good job you did," the Minister sang his praise while the Russian and American general kept their mouths shut.

They were thankful of course, if it weren't for him, many lives would have been lost. However, none of them can take full credit for it especially to General William since it was he who ordered the firing. As for Bukharin, he was just glad that the crisis was averted besides…

One of the drones tracked where the missile's location and it was being carried away by the world's first-ever male IS pilot.


End file.
